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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24608644">make my heart a double bed</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleardishwashers/pseuds/cleardishwashers'>cleardishwashers</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Check Please! (Webcomic)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Anxiety, Love Confessions, M/M, Roommates</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:54:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,463</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24608644</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleardishwashers/pseuds/cleardishwashers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Bitty arrives two weeks early to a room with so much CAUTION! tape over the door that he can’t even see inside, a captain whose face somehow conveys pure irritation and sincere apology at the same time, and a very stoned and very skinny Shitty.<br/>Or: the one where Bitty and Jack have to room together.</p><p>This was for the OMGCP Reverse Bang, and it was a blast to work on! My artist was <a href="https://novva.tumblr.com/">novva</a> on tumblr, check out her work!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>160</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>383</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>OMGCP Reverse Bang 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipermclean/gifts">pipermclean</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Bitty arrives two weeks early to a room with so much <em> CAUTION! </em> tape over the door that he can’t even see inside, a captain whose face somehow conveys pure irritation and sincere apology at the same time, and a very stoned and very skinny Shitty. He decides that he can fix one of these problems at a time, and seeing as Jack had the courtesy to buy butter on his pre-Bitty-arrival grocery trip (and is currently on the phone, dashing any hopes of Bitty finding out what the <em> hell </em> is going on with his room), he drops the bags outside the door and focuses his efforts on Shitty. “What in the world’ve they been feeding you in Boston?” he asks, pulling out the mixer and all his supplies. “Air and prayers?”</p><p>Shitty snorts. “Fuckin’ great to have you back, Bits. But yeah, my dad’s on some weird health food kick, and you know me. I gladly go weeks without green vegetables.”</p><p>“And lifting, if your shoulders are anything to judge by,” Jack chirps, walking into the kitchen. “Bittle, I’m really sorry about your room. Euh, when the university did the summertime inspections, they found something wrong with it.”</p><p>“Yeah, what exactly is happening with that?” Bitty asks, his heart suddenly pounding out a steady 140 beats per minute. “I’m not gonna be out on the streets, am I?” He chuckles weakly, and it hitches in his throat a little.</p><p>Shitty makes a little affronted noise through the mass of cookie dough in his mouth, and Jack looks genuinely taken aback. “Of course not, Bittle. It’s just— euh, they didn’t really explain it to me properly? Something with possums, or rodents or something.” He makes a face at the phone in his hand. “But the gist of it is that it’s unfit for residence. And they can’t come in to fix it until at least winter break.” He must see the wide-eyed look on Bitty’s face, because he hastily tacks on, “Seriously, Bittle, you’re not going anywhere. You’ll just have to share a room.”</p><p>“Oh. <em> Oh. </em> That’s— are you sure?” Bitty asks, feeling his insides clench with every word out of his mouth. “I’m sure it’s not too late to go to housing—”</p><p>“Bits, shut the fuck up,” Shitty says, finally having swallowed the batter. “You’re in the North now, you can stow the Southern courtesy. And actually, it’s not even a courtesy— we <em> love </em> living with you.”</p><p>“You’ve never lived with me before, Shitty,” Bitty replies, a small grin making its way onto his face.</p><p>“Brah, I was half convinced you <em> did </em> live here, you baked so much. You should’ve just dragged your bed into the kitchen and stayed.”</p><p>“And block access to the cold beers?” Bitty snorts. “This is a frat house. I know better.”</p><p>Shitty nods sagely. “You’ve been taught well. But back to the topic at hand: you are a goddamn <em> joy, </em> Eric Bittle, and it does <em> not </em> hurt that you bake fucking <em> delicious—” </em></p><p>“Shitty, if you steal one more spoonful of dough, you’re gonna find yourself evicted from this kitchen.”</p><p>Shitty immediately throws his hands up in surrender. Jack snorts. “Bringing out the big guns, huh, Bittle?”</p><p>“Big is effective,” Bitty replies, and then instantly turns red as Shitty starts to cackle. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Mr. Knight,” Bitty says, flustered.</p><p>“My name is <em> Shitty </em> for a reason, Bits,” Shitty says. “Now. Room situation. You can share with me, but you <em> will </em> end up smelling of weed, and I’m guessing you don’t want that to happen.”</p><p>“Bittle— you can share with me.”</p><p>“Are you sure?” Bitty asks, the words flying out of his mouth like a bat out of hell. Stupid goddamn Southern social conventions. “I could probably sleep in the basement—”</p><p>“Bittle,” Jack says, wearing what seems to be the most ardent stare that Bitty’s ever seen. “The basement is a piece of shit.” Shitty nods in agreement, and Jack’s stare grows even more intense. “You’re a part of this team. We’ve got your back.”</p><p>“Oh,” Bitty says. “Oh. Well. Thanks, Jack. But only if you’re sure.”</p><p>Jack flashes him a sliver of a grin, and Bitty finds himself beaming back. “Positive.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>AND THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED,,,,</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>While the cookies cool, Jack heads upstairs to put Bittle’s bags in his room. He drops them at the foot of his bed— </span>
  <em>
    <span>I should get the bed in Bittle’s room in here, too—</span>
  </em>
  <span> steps across the hall, and tries to figure out how to get rid of the caution tape. He pokes his hand through the tape and turns the handle, lets the door swing open, and settles on prying a section of tape in the middle open. After awkwardly contorting himself into a Quasimodo-like shape, he manages to step through.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is no bed in the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Furthermore, it </span>
  <em>
    <span>smells.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Bad enough that Jack thinks maybe something toxic spilled over the summer and nobody bothered to clean it up, bad enough that he wonders if anything can be taken out without stinking up the rest of the Haus, bad enough that he can only bear to stand inside for another two minutes before practically launching himself back through the tape. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Crisse,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thinks, slamming the door closed. He stumbles across the hall to his room, where the window is open, and sticks his head out, breathing in the blessedly fresh air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now that he thinks about it, there </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> been an odor when he’d come back. He’d figured that it was simply the smell of a house that had been locked up for two months, but he should’ve known better. At least now he has a sense of what happened— something must’ve made a nest in Bittle’s bed, and the inspectors must’ve had it hauled off, and student services must’ve made it their mission to make the source of the problem as hard to discover as possible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Jack, the cookies are ready!” comes Bittle’s voice from downstairs. Jack exhales heavily, and then he realizes—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s only one bed. Granted, it’s a queen, but it’s still </span>
  <em>
    <span>just one bed.</span>
  </em>
  <span> What if Bittle is uncomfortable sharing, what if Bittle hates Jack for not checking earlier, what if—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yo! Jackabelle, everything good?” Shitty calls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack takes a breath. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s fine.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Yep,” he replies, making his way to the kitchen. He steps into the doorway, and Bittle shoots him a concerned glance. “Bittle, euh— there’s only one bed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bittle blinks. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think— I think that, euh. Whatever rodent they found, I think they nested in your bed, and the inspection crew must’ve hauled it off without telling us. But that means you’ll have to share. I hope that’s okay.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Of course it’s not okay, he already had to share a room with someone who was a complete dick to him last year and now he has to share a </span>
  </em>
  <span>bed—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course!” Bittle says. He laughs a little, light and airy. “Oh, you looked so distressed I thought you must’ve seen a corpse or something up there. Here, try a cookie.” Jack looks down at the cookies distractedly, barely registering them. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Of course.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Bittle said </span>
  <em>
    <span>of course.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He doesn’t hate him. “C’mon, Jack, one cookie won’t kill ya.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” Jack echoes, the tension dissolving from his chest. He takes one of the cookies and bites into it— snickerdoodle. “It’s good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right? Fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>masterpieces,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Shitty says, cramming two more into his mouth at once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There aren’t gonna be any left if you keep inhaling them like that,” Bittle says with a smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bits, we all know you’re gonna end up baking, like, six pies in the next two days,” Shitty replies. “But I shall concede. Anyway. Bits, tell me your schedule again? I want to know how to maximize kegster enjoyment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t fall into the Excel hole like Ransom and Holster did,” Jack advises, taking another bite of the cookie as Bittle and Shitty start discussing class times. He forces himself to let out a breath. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’ll be fine.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>you thought jack was the only one allowed to be awkward,,,,, You Were Wrong</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Bitty sleeps in the attic until Ransom and Holster come back, but after that, he’s forced into Jack’s room for good— into Jack’s <em> bed </em> for good, or at least for the next three and a half months, unless student services decides to get their collective shit together, which— probably not, given that—</p><p>“Bittle.” Jack’s voice startles him out of his reverie, and he jumps. <em> What in hell is Jack doing here? </em> he wonders. He should’ve just “accidentally” fallen asleep on the couch again like he’d done the past two days. He’d specifically timed his retreat upstairs so that he wouldn’t have to deal with any of this awkwardness— even though Jack doesn’t seem to hate him anymore, their relationship is nowhere near Jack-and-Shitty levels, and Bitty knows that no straight man wants to share a bed with a gay guy, so it made <em> sense </em> for Bitty to go upstairs early and fall asleep before Jack even <em> thought </em> about bed— and sure, maybe scrolling through weeks’ worth of texts from the group chat to find Jack’s course list was a little excessive, but he needed to anticipate Jack’s sleep schedule if he was going to avoid uncomfortable interactions. And now Jack had to come upstairs and ruin it. “Euh. Do you mind— I need to use the bathroom.”</p><p>With a start, Bitty realizes that he’s blocking the door. “Oh. Oh! Sorry. But, uh— I thought you didn’t have any morning classes tomorrow?” he says, moving to the side. He regrets asking the second the words leave his mouth.</p><p>“You know my schedule?” Jack asks, looking surprised but not <em> why-does-this-player-who-can’t-even-take-a-check-know-my-schedule </em> surprised. “Oh, I guess I did send it to the group chat. No, I— I get up early. To run.”</p><p><em> “Voluntarily?” </em> Bitty asks, and he’s about to mentally smack himself until he sees the corner of Jack’s mouth twitch up.</p><p>“You can never have too much cardio,” Jack replies. “And it’s nice. To clear my head, y’know?”</p><p>“You manage to make running sound so fun,” Bitty deadpans. And then— <em> miracle of miracles!— </em> Jack smiles again, with both sides of his mouth this time. “Anyway, I’ll just— get out of your hair.”</p><p>“I thought you were going to bed,” Jack says. “Sorry, if you haven’t brushed your teeth or something you can go first—”</p><p>“Nope! I was actually just… uh, going to <em> thread. </em> Going to get thread. To sew up this guy’s ear,” Bitty says, snatching Señor Bun from where he rests on the desk. “And now he’s fixed, so I’m going to go… bake.”</p><p>“It’s ten at night,” Jack says.</p><p>“Perfect time to bake!” Bitty says cheerfully. “The boys’re all heading away from the kitchen, so I’ll be undisturbed.”</p><p>Jack crosses his arms over his chest. “I get it.” <em> Please don’t get it please don’t get it please don’t get it— </em> “You’re procrastinating.”</p><p><em> I’m what? </em> “Oh, you got me!” Bitty replies, his smile strained. “Those summer assignments are killing me.”</p><p>“This must be some kind of record. ‘Eric Bittle, first procrastinator at Samwell for the 2014-2015 school year,’” Jack chirps. His arms are still crossed. It makes him look terrifying. Like a French-Canadian Terminator.</p><p>“That’s me!” Bitty says, ever-so-slowly walking to the door. “I still have a week, it’s fine. So I’m just gonna go bake. What kind of pie do you feel like? Never mind. I’ll just make all of them. I brought all those pans up for a reason! You can have a slice tomorrow before your run, I’ll make a savory one. Breakfast pies, there’s an idea.”</p><p>“Euh. Okay. Thanks? Um. Goodnight.” Jack sounds very confused. Bitty takes this as his chance.</p><p>“Yep no problem goodnight!” he calls, practically sprinting downstairs.</p><p>He doesn’t realize that he’s brought Señor Bun with him until Shitty, stoned and looking for food, points it out. <em> This is just goddamn lovely. </em></p><p>…</p><p>When he slips under the covers, he can feel Jack’s warmth from the whole other side of the bed. He tries not to think about it.</p><p>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>cons of sharing a bed: you also share a wake-up time.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Jack wakes up before his alarm.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This is usually not a good thing. This usually means that some gingerly balanced equilibrium in his brain has been thrown off, and he’s about to feel the effects in all other aspects of his life.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But this time, the equilibrium was already fucked up. He didn’t do enough to fix Bittle’s room, and now he has a tiny blonde baker sleeping next to him, which is definitely not in his usual routine. So he files this imbalance very tentatively under </span>
  <em>
    <span>ignorable,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he hopes it doesn’t come back to bite him in the ass.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course, all this deliberating means that the four minutes between him opening his eyes and his alarm going off has withered away to nothing, and he must’ve forgotten to put his phone on vibrate last night because now it is beeping. Very loudly. He spares one last glance at Bittle (when did he start looking at Bittle?), who is still sleeping soundly, before frantically scrabbling for his phone. This motion upsets the water glass on the nightstand. Said water glass topples to the floor. It shatters.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bittle jerks awake with a sharp intake of breath. “Whasshappenin?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Crisse,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jack hisses, finally managing to turn the alarm off. “Bittle, go back to sleep.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop speakin’ French,” Bittle says— at least, that’s what Jack </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinks</span>
  </em>
  <span> he says, because Bittle’s accent has become so thick as to be indecipherable. “‘M gonna fail.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Bittle,</span>
  </em>
  <span> I’m not speaking French.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bittle frowns. “Why’s yer accent so bad then?”</span>
</p>
<p><span>Jack suddenly remembers a conversation he’d had with Shitty a year ago, when Shitty had crawled into his bed at one in the morning and in response to Jack’s swearing, Shitty had told him that his accent was “incredibly fuckin’ strong, so I’m gonna need you to tone it down because I can’t understand jack shit. Ha. </span><em><span>Jack</span></em> <em><span>shit</span></em><span>.”</span></p>
<p>
  <span>Jack shakes his head. “Go back to </span>
  <em>
    <span>sleep,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Bittle.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But now Bittle is fully awake, and he looks past Jack to see the water spilled on the nightstand. “Oh, let me help clean that mess up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bittle, I was the one who dropped it—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jack, it’s fine, honestly—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You must’ve gone to bed late last night, seriously, go back to bed—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Too late,” Bittle says, hopping out of the bed and disappearing into the hallway. He comes back with a broom and dustpan. “You can’t tell a Southern boy not to help. It’s in my blood.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“At least let me sweep,” Jack says, carefully placing his feet on the ground. “It’s my mess.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bittle opens his mouth to argue, but Jack shoots him a Captain Look and he withers away. “Fine, I’ll get the paper towels.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jack takes the broom from Bittle. “Thanks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, it’s no trouble at all.” Bittle smiles hesitantly before heading out again, and Jack turns to the mess on the floor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He manages to get most of it into the dustpan before Bittle returns, a roll of paper towels under his arm. “I think it’s all in here, but you should still be careful. Or— here, just pass it. No point in both of us putting our feet at risk.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bittle frowns for a millisecond before handing the paper towels over. “For a place that hosts this many kegsters, we use far too many glass cups.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jack snorts as he tosses the wet paper towel into his bin. “Yeah.” He finishes cleaning by laying a few paper towels over the ground to absorb any excess water, and then he turns around. “Sorry for waking you up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, it’s fine, Jack. I would’ve had to get up this early tomorrow, anyway, if we’re still doing checking practices.” Jack had been wondering if Bittle had still needed them, but after that practice— well. “Thank you, again. I bet you’d rather be doing something else with your time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I like it. More ice time, for one,” Jack says. “And I get up this early anyway, most days, so.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know </span>
  <em>
    <span>how</span>
  </em>
  <span> you do it,” Bittle replies. “But, y’know, now that I’m awake I feel fine. I guess it’s just opening your eyes that’s hard, huh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve been waking up this early for a while,” Jack says. “I guess I just got used to it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I could never,” Bittle says. He looks— well, a little uncertain. So Jack does the stupidest thing he could do, and he asks,</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Euh— do you want to go running with me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Why the hell would he want to go running with—</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure!” Bittle says cheerfully. “Lemme just get changed— oh, it’s already getting nippy out, Lord. I’m not built for these Massachusetts winters, I tell you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jack allows himself to crack a smile. “Bittle, it’s fifteen degrees out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bittle looks at him like he’s gone crazy for a second— </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Celsius. I will never understand the conversion, I swear, I’m not about to multiply by </span>
  <em>
    <span>nine-fifths.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Anyway. I’ll just go change. Be out in a sec!” And with that, Bittle disappears into the bathroom.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jack shakes his head a little, as if dislodging something. He should change, instead of standing here and staring at the spot where Bittle just was.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He beats his personal record, but Bittle outruns him in the race back to the Haus. He thinks it’s going to be a good day.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>home opener! the exclamation point is misleading it's not a fun chapter for jack.<br/>cw: jack has an anxiety attack. he's not the pov character but a large portion of the chapter is about it.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The first game of the season was nerve-wracking enough last year, but now Bitty might get kicked off the team if he doesn’t perform well and he’ll lose his scholarship and he’ll have to go back to Georgia and—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bits!” Shitty calls. Bitty turns around, and there’s Shitty, running down the sidewalk towards him. “Bits, brah, you gift-bestowed-on-this-earth-by-the-gods. You got a phone charger? Mine died in Founders, and this was the </span>
  <em>
    <span>one</span>
  </em>
  <span> fucking day that I can’t go back to get one— I have a really important meeting with my advisor in, like, ten minutes—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shitty, we have to be at Faber in an hour!” Bitty exclaims.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hence my inability to go back to the Haus.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, sorry,” Bitty says. “Aw, goddamnit, I left my earbuds behind too, and I was gonna go for a run!” Shitty grimaces in sympathy. “Well, I’ve gotta go back now, so d’you want me to grab you a charger and drop it off at your advisor’s office?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shitty shakes his head, already starting to jog backwards. “Nah, bro, don’t go out of your way. Pregame is sacred.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You sure?” Bitty calls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, good luck with your advisor!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shitty gives him a thumbs up in return, and Bitty begins his trek back to the Haus.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t bother to take his backpack off, just runs upstairs to the room. He knows he’d left the earbuds on the dresser, he just needs to grab them and— </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Jack?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Bitty exclaims, because his captain is sitting on the floor, knees curled to his chest, eyes wide and glazed over. “What’re you— </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Bitty drops to his knees beside Jack, trying to remember what his mama had done when he’d finally come home after being locked in that closet and just </span>
  <em>
    <span>cried,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he just barely remembers to ask, “Can I touch you?” Jack nods, and Bitty tentatively wraps his arms around him. “Does this— is this—” Jack nods again, and it’s only then that Bitty notices he’s shaking, uneven breaths tearing through him like stormy winds ripping through a sail. “It’s alright, Jack, I promise— can you tell me what’s wrong?” Jack shakes his head. “Is it the game?” A nod, accompanied by a shuddering breath. “Should I— do you want me to talk about something that’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> the game, or—” Another nod. “Okay. Okay, uh, I’m gonna tell you how to bake an apple pie, okay?” Another nod. “So, this is what I’m gonna make after, uh— tomorrow. I’ll be making this tomorrow, ‘cause Lord knows we got plenty of apples on hand. So what you wanna do for the filling is, uh, you gotta peel and core and chop all those apples— I’m thinkin’ of recruiting Ransom and Holster, because Lord knows Shitty’ll have the munchies—” Bitty’s cut off by a small huff of laughter coming from Jack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Jack whispers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That boy is like a chimney, I dunno how he can stand it. You think the weed smell gets all stuck in his mustache?” Jack laughs again, this time a little less like a corpse. “You want me to keep talking?” Jack nods. “Okay. Well, after the apples are all prepped, you gotta put them into a dish and put some lemon, cinnamon, sugar— I like to put a bit of dissolved cornstarch, but that’s not for everyone—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My grandma does that,” Jack says hoarsely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, your grandma obviously has taste. Is this the French one or the English one?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“French,” Jack replies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ooh, I’m sure she makes the best pastries. You know, when I was a kid, I always wanted to go to culinary school in France. But they don’t have nearly as much respect for pies as they should, and pies are central to my baking faith, so that dream was chucked straight down the toilet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You bake like you’ve gone already,” Jack says. He’s stopped shaking, and his breathing is noticeably less violent, but he’s still pale. Bitty keeps holding onto him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He’s warm,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Bitty registers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why, thank you! I swear, going back down to Georgia this summer was like four years of baking rolled into one— I think my mama had me bake twelve pies for the Fourth. We must’ve sent every family home from the barbeque with at least half of one. But that’s Southern hospitality for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds nice,” Jack says, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Bittle— thanks. Euh. Yeah. Thanks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bitty untwines his arms from around Jack. “Got your back, remember? And Jack— I promise, you’ll be just fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack smiles for real this time— it’s still a little thin and wavery, but it’s good to see. “Thank you, Bittle. So will you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They win.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>checking practice!<br/>cw: discussions of anxiety</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Faber is cold and icy and filled with beams of reflected sunlight, and Jack wouldn’t have it any other way. “One last time. You know the drill,” Jack says, and then he pushes off and skates towards Bittle. He gets a millisecond of contact in before Bittle zips away, and he comes to a stop against the boards. “That was good. But you need to work on fighting checks that are already in progress, not just ones you see coming. Because you </span>
  <em>
    <span>won’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> always see them coming.” And here come the memories of Bittle getting checked last year, Bittle hitting the ground with a sickening </span>
  <em>
    <span>thud,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Bittle’s empty helmet crashing against the ice— “You’re not fully equipped for those.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bittle sighs. “I know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not to say you haven’t gotten better. You have.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But not enough,” Bittle says ruefully. “Well. We’ve still got a week before the next game—” and there it is, the g-word, the one that makes Bittle shoot a near-unnoticeable glance Jack’s way; and every time, without fail, Jack’s insides heat up and he wants to erase every memory of the incident (even though Bittle gives really good hugs)— “and maybe I’ll make some miraculous progress that’ll have me take every check like I’m the goddamned Hulk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a millisecond Jack doesn’t notice that Bittle has finished his sentence— he’s too busy trying to remember Shitty and his therapist and his parents telling him that </span>
  <em>
    <span>hey,</span>
  </em>
  <span> his anxiety doesn’t make him a lesser captain or player or </span>
  <em>
    <span>person—</span>
  </em>
  <span> and by the time he’s caught up, Bittle has evidently decided to just ask straight-up, “Are you feeling better?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh?” Jack asks. He was waiting for something— more </span>
  <em>
    <span>pitying,</span>
  </em>
  <span> maybe. Not this expression of genuine concern. “Oh. Yeah, I am. Euh. I’m sorry you had to see that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jack, please don’t apologize. That’s not something— something you can </span>
  <em>
    <span>control,</span>
  </em>
  <span> y’know? And if we were all runnin’ around shaming people for things they can’t control, I’d’ve been cut from this team a year ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Huh. That actually… makes sense. “Oh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Bitty looks like he’s waiting for Jack to say something else, but Jack doesn’t really know what he should— </span>
  <em>
    <span>could—</span>
  </em>
  <span> say. “Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, Bittle.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>NEVER FALL FOR A STRAIGHT BOY!!! EXCEPT IT'S LIKE SEVERAL MONTHS EARLY!!! BECAUSE ROOMMATES!!!!! also this is not at all canon compliant. let's just pretend that the force of jack-bitty-roommateness was enough to completely change everything about the leadup to hazeapalooza.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Can you pass me the flour, Lardo?” Bitty asks, grabbing the rolling pin. Lardo slides the container across the counter without looking up from her sketchbook, and then—</p><p>“You fucking <em> WHAT?!” </em> Shitty cries from the living room.</p><p>Bitty drops the rolling pin and walks over to where Jack and Shitty are lounging on the couch (Bitty will not be accepting any Shitty hugs until he’s changed), because the last time Shitty sounded so distressed was when Jack swapped his grade-A weed for oregano, and Bitty needs to know if he’ll be baking a comfort pie in addition to the Hazeapalooza ones. “Bits,” Shitty says immediately upon Bitty’s entrance, “My dear Bits, this is a fucking <em> travesty!” </em></p><p>“What is?” Bitty asks. “Did Jack do something to your weed again?”</p><p>Jack cracks a barely-there smile— and <em> Lord, </em> he’s got a nice smile. “I <em> wish!” </em> Shitty cries. “I’ve been betrayed by the love of my life, Bits!”</p><p>“I was out of town for our year’s hazing,” Jack explains.</p><p>“I can’t fucking believe it!” Shitty exclaims. “Lards! Lards, where are you? I’ve been Caesar’d!”</p><p>Lardo pokes her head into the living room. “Like, not cool, Jack? But also, Shits— you didn’t know that?”</p><p>“Et <em> fucking </em> tu!” Shitty yells. “Although thank you for allowing me the pleasure of the <em> et tu </em> tie-in.”</p><p>“No probs,” Lardo replies.</p><p>“Shitty, y’all were in the same batch, how’d you not know he wasn’t there?” Bitty asks.</p><p>“I was <em> really </em> fuckin’ sloshed,” Shitty admits. “But we’re diverting too far! This fucking <em> Adonis </em> hasn’t fucking been hazed!”</p><p>“Haze ‘im this year, then,” Bitty suggests. “Now, I really wish I could help you through this revelation, but I got some pies to attend to…”</p><p>“Thank you for your service,” Lardo says. “And that’s a good idea. Jack, as manager, I’m decreeing that you get hazed.”</p><p>“Fuckin’ love you, Lards,” Shitty says— and Bitty definitely notices how Lardo’s cheeks flush slightly. “Jack Laurent Zimmermann, I cordially invite you to this year’s Hazea— wait, Bits, are you baking pies for the frogs? No fucking pies for the frogs!”</p><p>Bitty frowns. “I’ve already got half of ‘em in the oven!”</p><p>“Save them for us,” Lardo says. “No pies in hazing.”</p><p>“No pies in hazing,” Shitty echoes.</p><p>“Spoilsport,” Jack chirps.</p><p>“Why, Mr. Zimmermann, I thought you’d never come around to my pies!” Bitty exclaims. “C’mon, Shitty, I worked so hard to win ‘im over!”</p><p>“No pies in hazing!” Shitty and Lardo say in a creepy unison, and, well. You can’t say no to your manager and your stoner teammate at the same time.</p><p>…</p><p>Bitty makes more pies anyway, because maybe Ransom and Holster will side with him— and even if they don’t, he can sneak them to the frogs at some point. And Jack. Jack will be there too. Getting hazed.</p><p>It makes Bitty’s stomach flip-flop to think about Jack going through Hazeapalooza— no-shirt, no-pants Hazeapalooza— for some unknown reason that he most definitely does not want to think about. He ignores the weird feeling in his chest and bakes three more pies instead, and then suddenly he’s run out of time and he needs to shoot a vlog intro before heading to Faber and he’s not ready in the slightest. He runs upstairs to Jack’s room— his room— his and Jack’s room?— <em> the room </em> (why is he <em> still </em> tripping up on this)— and yanks off his flour-covered shirt, not noticing that anyone else is present until Jack makes a weird half-cough half-yelp noise, and Bitty jumps. “Oh! Jack, I thought you’d left!” he says, feeling irrationally conscious of himself. He has no reason to feel weird. Jack sees him in this state of undress all the time, he reminds himself— Jack sees him even <em> more </em> naked than this (and now the funny feeling is back). He ignores it, just as easily as he ignores Holster’s tone-deaf shower singing.</p><p>“Oh, I— I left my phone here,” Jack says, shifting unsteadily. “Earlier— euh, my parents called, and— I can wait—”</p><p>“No, you head out—”</p><p>“Or I can go now— okay, yeah, I’ll do that,” Jack says. He makes a move towards the door, and then he stops. “No pies in hazing, eh?” he says, smirking at the flour undoubtedly streaked across Bitty’s face.</p><p>“Oh, hush,” Bitty replies, fighting back a smile. “Or I’ll put my mind to finding out who keeps eating slices of pie in the middle of the night.”</p><p>Jack’s face goes rigidly neutral— the Hockey Robot expression that would surely cow anyone across from him in the faceoff circle, except Bitty can see the slightly upturned corner of his mouth, which lessens the effect. “You wouldn’t know such activity existed if you’d go to bed at a reasonable hour, Bittle.”</p><p>Despite himself, Bitty snorts. “Mr. Zimmermann, you chirp an awful lot for someone who’s about to face my wrath.”</p><p>“Are you going to poison my pie?” Jack asks. “Because I think that’s called entrapment.”</p><p>“I think you’re better off leaving the legal terms to Shitty.”</p><p>“Are you saying that I’m just a pretty face?”</p><p>“Well, it sure as hell ain’t an ugly one.” Bitty’s suddenly very glad the room is dark, because he can tell he’s glowing as red as a tomato. “Go on, you’re gonna be late!”</p><p>“And Shitty doesn’t really have much goodwell left for me,” Jack says. “See you soon, Bittle.” He ducks out the door, and then he’s gone, without so much as a creaky floorboard left in his wake. It’s only then that Bitty realizes how hard he’s been smiling.</p><p>He pulls on his red tank top and gets his equipment set up as fast as he can. “Hey, y’all!” he exclaims, smile bright. “I’ve been sworn to secrecy, so I’ll just say this: Hazeapalooza is tonight, so you frogs best get ready!” <em> And Jack, </em> he adds mentally. <em> Jack’ll be there too. </em></p><p>He grins again, and then it hits him.</p><p>Jack is stoic, and Jack is nice, and Jack is funny in a deadpan way that’s hard to pick up on but so rewarding to understand— and Bitty most definitely has feelings for him.</p><p>“Shit,” he whispers. How did he not realize— scratch that, how did he end up in this damned situation in the first place— <em> goddamnit, </em> he’d been so determined to never, ever have a crush on a straight boy, let alone have it be this <em> strong— </em> “Lord, I’m still recording,” he mutters, more to himself than anything. He looks up at the camera again, his smile wavering. “Well. Y’all follow me for advice, right?” he asks, biting the inside of his cheek. “Here’s my advice to you— and it’s something I should’ve learned a long time ago. Never fall for a straight boy.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>[chanting] wgs wgs wgs<br/>or: the boys bake a pie!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He is </span>
  <em>
    <span>ruining</span>
  </em>
  <span> the pie.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bitty will be able to fix it, of course, but the whole point of a </span>
  <em>
    <span>group</span>
  </em>
  <span> project is that everyone contributes, and right now, he’s only detracting. “Bittle, I’m messing up your project. Look at this. It’s awful…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop it, I’m sure it’s great,” Bittle says. “Lemme see—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have no idea why you’re trusting me with this. Look—” he turns around, lifting the pie above his head, and slams straight into Bitty— “Oh, sorry—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Pardon me— e-excuse you, my kitchen is no place for </span>
  <em>
    <span>checking!”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Bittle exclaims.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Your</span>
  </em>
  <span> kitchen?” Jack chirps, cocking his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A light flush rises to Bitty’s cheeks. “Well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>the</span>
  </em>
  <span> kitchen! Now move your big— </span>
  <em>
    <span>um.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My big…?” Jack trails off, enjoying the way that Bitty’s cheeks get even redder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bitty throws a pinch of flour at him, and Jack smiles even wider as he lifts the pie out of the way of the onslaught. “I was asking about your professional hockey career, Mr. Zimmermann,” Bittle says primly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right… I was talking with some assistant GMs from the California teams last week. They’re all really nice… but I still have my big three.” He picks up the strips for the lattice again, contentment settling in his chest. Bitty’s a good listener. “And you know, I never thought about signing with an expansion team, but I was talking to my dad and Uncle Mario about it… they said with the way the teams are stacking up? With how Kent— uh, the Aces—” and even with his slip-up, it doesn’t feel like he’s being scrutinized— “won the cup a couple years ago… and then the Schooners and Falconers reached the playoffs… if the stars align and all that, you know? And George— that’s, uh, Georgia. She’s been talking to my agent almost every day…” Jack trails off, and then he realizes that Bitty’s staring at him, brown eyes turned gold by the sun and pink lips slightly twisted— like a smile, but more painful— “Bittle? What’s wrong? If there’s anything on my face, you put it there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bittle stares for a millisecond longer before startling. “Oh! Nothing’s wrong, it’s just— wow! That’d be incredible, if you played so close to home, y’know?” He blushes. “Well, I s’pose Montreal’s home for you, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>home</span>
  </em>
  <span> as in Samwell home. The Haus, if you wanna get real specific with it. But, y’know, with you and Shitty graduating this year— things’ll be different next year, I guess, and we don’t know where Shitty’ll be going for law school and where you’ll be going to play, so if you end up in Providence, it’d be nice to be able to see you on at least a semi-regular basis, y’know— and I’m rambling, aren’t I?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t apologize, I rambled earlier.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“About your </span>
  <em>
    <span>professional hockey career.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Technically, you’re also rambling about my professional hockey career.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bitty snorts as he blushes even more, and for a second Jack thinks he’s going to be attacked with flour again. “Mr. Zimmermann, I swear you’ll be the death of me. Now, let’s get this lattice fixed.” Bitty steps closer, into Jack’s space, and Jack can feel Bitty’s warmth radiating into his side. “See, you did all right! Now, let’s just straighten this out here—” Bitty’s fingertips brush over Jack’s knuckles, and Jack suppresses a shiver— “and there we go! See, it’s good!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, because you fixed it,” Jack says with a grin. “Thanks for helping me out, Bittle.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Got your back,” Bittle says. “Now, let’s just pop this in the oven, huh? And then you can finish telling me about your prospects.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sounds like a plan,” Jack says, opening the oven as Bitty grabs the pie. “So, I really like George, and a good relationship with the GM is always ideal…”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>epikegster 2014 :(<br/>cw: vague mentions of past homophobic bullying</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Bitty fumbles around in his pocket for the key, swaying slightly from the meager quantity of alcohol he’d thrown back, as the party rages on downstairs. There’s some noise coming from inside the room— probably one of the history documentaries Jack watches to calm down, or an episode of 30 Rock— Holster had finally managed to convert Jack, so it’s more than likely—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Kenny—”</span>
  </em>
  <span> comes an anguished voice that definitely belongs to Jack. Bitty freezes in place, key in hand. He hasn’t heard Jack sound like that since right before the home opener.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“—Zimms,</span>
  </em>
  <span> just fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop thinking</span>
  </em>
  <span> for once and listen to me. I’ll tell the GMs you’re on board and they can free up cap space. Then you can be </span>
  <em>
    <span>done</span>
  </em>
  <span> with this shitty team. You and me—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Get out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jack.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a pause, and Bitty thinks maybe he should leave before Kent goddamn Parson comes out and finds him hiding in the hallway, and then the two of them start yelling, twice as loud and twice as impassioned, and he freezes again. “You can’t— you don’t come to my </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking school unannounced—”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“—because you shut me out—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“—and corner me in my room—”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“—I’m trying to help—”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“—And expect me to do whatever you want—”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“—Fuck— Jack!”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Parson pauses for a split second, and then he barrels on— “What do you want me to say? That I miss you? </span>
  <em>
    <span>I miss you, okay?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> And then, so quiet that Bitty almost misses it— “I miss you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jack doesn’t say anything, and Bitty starts tiptoeing back down the hall, and then— “You always say that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Huh. Well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit. Okay.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> The key is still in Bitty’s hand, cold metal searing into his palm. Years in the homophobic South means he’s heard this tone of voice enough to know what comes next, and he can’t get his feet to move. He shouldn’t be here for this. For any of it. “You know what, Zimmermann? You think you’re too fucked up to care about? That you’re not good enough?” Parson says, enough venom in his voice to kill, “Everyone already </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> what you are but it’s people like </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> who still </span>
  <em>
    <span>care.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A tiny whisper— “Shut up—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>—but Parson does not show mercy. “You’re scared everyone else is going to find out you’re worthless, right?” And if Parson is following the same script Bitty’s memorized, he’ll be smirking right about now, drawing back for the kill. “Oh, don’t worry. Just give it a few seasons, Jack. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Trust me.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nobody says anything for a minute.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“G-get out of my room.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine. Shut me out again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And stay away from my team,” Jack says, his voice slightly more insistent. The sound of footsteps fill Bitty’s eardrums, and he finally comes to his senses, stumbling back towards the stairs, but he’s too late. The door opens, throwing blinding light into the hallway. Jack, hair mussed and eyes wide, freezes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Parson moves past Bitty like he isn’t even there, clearing his throat as he fixes his Aces cap. “Hey. Well. Call me if you reconsider, or whatever. But good luck with the Falconers.” And then, as he reaches the stairs, he throws out— “I’m sure that’ll make your dad proud.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The second Parson’s out of sight, Bitty whips around to face Jack. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He’s trembling,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Bitty notices. “Jack—” But Jack is already staggering backwards towards Shitty’s room, avoiding eye contact, and he slams the door behind him.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>jack sneaks out.<br/>cw: mentions of anxiety and panic attacks</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>By the time Jack has worked through his panic attack, half an hour has passed and he can’t hear the sounds of Beyonce anymore, which means Bitty is asleep. He can’t go in the room. He’ll wake Bitty up. And then Bitty will look at him with that condescending pity that was so conspicuously absent the only other time Jack had gotten this bad around him, because Bitty might’ve been okay about it the first time but he just didn’t realize how fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>lacking</span>
  </em>
  <span> he is, and it might be the anxiety and it might be him but either way—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Shut up,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jack tells himself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shut up, shut up— Shitty wouldn’t say that about you. Maman and Papa wouldn’t say that about you. Bitty wouldn’t say that about you,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thinks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I am not a failure.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gets up, and he decides to go to Stop n’ Shop.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The window slides open with barely a squeak— Shitty’s habit of smoking weed naked in the Reading Room does not diminish during the winter, and for that, Jack is (sometimes) thankful— and he slides out onto the porch roof. He hears Shitty and Lardo laughing below him, and he slowly slides to the other end; mercifully, there isn’t anyone on the lawn to ask why the captain of the hockey team is jumping into some bushes. He casually walks down the lawn path, the cold wind numbing his body, and then— “Hey! Jackabelle! You want some tub juice?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jack turns around, silently cursing, and walks up to the porch. “Hey, Shits,” he says, internally wincing at how fucked up his voice sounds. “No thanks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shitty gives him a once-over and takes it in stride, reaching over the railing to ruffle Jack’s hair. “Respect, brah. What’s up with you? You good?” Lardo, perched on the railing, raises an inquisitive eyebrow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine,” Jack says. “I’m fine. I was just gonna go to Stop ‘n Shop.” He feels stupid saying it— who the hell is going to the grocery store at three in the morning when there’s a party going on in their house?— but Shitty and Lardo just nod.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Brah. Wise choice. Pick me up some gummy bears? I’d go, but I gotta watch the tub juice,” Shitty says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I got it, Shits, you can go. But get some extra for me,” Lardo says. Shitty salutes her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let’s go,” Jack says. The </span>
  <em>
    <span>hockey robot</span>
  </em>
  <span> is slipping back into his voice, and he’s kind of too bone-tired to care. “Are you gonna be cold?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Pfft,” Shitty says. “Pfffffffft.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is he drunk?” Jack asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nah. Tipsy at best,” Lardo replies.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s also standing right here. And he actually is getting cold, so let’s go,” Shitty says. Lardo sighs and pulls off the oversized hoodie she’s somehow procured. She tosses it at him, and it hits him in the face. “Thanks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No probs.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They come back from Stop n’ Shop with an assload of junk food that Jack will have to carefully ration out, two cartons of eggs that will undoubtedly be gone by Thursday, and three boxes of butter that will certainly be used up even faster. The haul gets sorted and put away as the Haus empties out, and Shitty disappears around the time the Pringles run out, presumably to give the gummy bears to Lardo. Jack tosses out the cardboard tube and heads up to bed, deciding to just sleep in Shitty’s room for the night. He opens the door, steps around where he knows the puke will be, flicks the light on— “Bittle?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jack!” Bitty exclaims, flushed a deep red. “I was— well, the room started getting cold, and that only happens when Shitty leaves the window open—” </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jack thinks, suddenly registering the chill in the air and remembering that he’d forgotten to close the window when he left— “so I wanted to check on you, make sure you were all right— uh, I don’t mean to pry, of course, and I didn’t mean to eavesdrop— I’m real sorry about that, by the way, but—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bittle,” Jack repeats. “Bitty. It’s fine. Euh. Sorry about the window. And the cold. And— I got you butter.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bitty furrows his eyebrows. It’s kinda cute. “At four in the morning?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now it’s Jack’s turn to blush, even though he has no idea why. “I went to Stop n’ Shop. Just, euh… I needed to clear my head.” He pauses for a half-second. “The panic attacks— that’s what they are, panic attacks—” and he sees Bitty nod, and there’s still no condescension evident, and he thanks his lucky stars for that because for some reason he really does not think he could take it if Bitty started looking at him like some pitiable, subhuman creature who can’t take care of himself— “they kind of take a lot out of me. And sometimes if I go walking or do something simple I get some energy back.” His neck is burning, but somehow the shame isn’t as bad as he thought it would be. “Hence the butter.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well. I appreciate it, Jack. And I’m real glad you’re feeling better. Uh, and— if you ever need— well, even just someone to sit with you and help you breathe or something like that— I mean— well. I got your back, if that’s what you need.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jack blinks. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting— probably a question about Parse, because that’s what any hockey player in their right mind would ask— but it wasn’t this. “Euh. I appreciate it, Bitty.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course, Jack.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They stand there for a moment, and then a particularly strong gust of wind blows through the room and Bitty shivers. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Tabarnak,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jack hisses, crossing the room to close the window. “Sorry, Bittle. And sorry for keeping you up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t be silly, Jack, it’s not a problem. I’m glad I got to check up on you, anyway,” Bitty says. “I’m gonna head back to bed, unless you need anything?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Euh, I’m fine. I just need to brush my teeth,” Jack says, moving towards the bathroom.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bitty laughs, crossing through the bathroom and into their room. “I should’ve known you’re the type to brush his teeth after a rager,” he says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A smile— a tired one, but possibly the first genuine one since he’d seen Parse— makes its way onto his face. “Don’t you know that it’s illegal to chirp between the hours of midnight and five AM?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are captains somehow exempt from that law?” Bitty fires back. “Because I can remember a lot of early morning checking practices that were </span>
  <em>
    <span>filled</span>
  </em>
  <span> with supposedly illegal chirps, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mr. Zimmermann.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course we are,” Jack says. “That’s the premiere benefit of captaincy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lord, you’re so Canadian,” Bitty replies, grinning. “Well. I should let you get ready. G’night.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Night, Bitty,” Jack replies. “Thanks again for— y’know, checking in.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Anytime, Jack.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The door closes, and through the fatigue, Jack can feel some semblance of peace wash over him.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>it's the day before winter break, and all through the haus<br/>not a creature is stirring, except jack and shitty because they're busy burning cookies</p><p>also: i do not have a sense of smell so i have no idea what vinegar or vodka smell like. however. jack probably does. so let's just ignore that fact</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><span>Bitty wakes up, and the first thing he thinks is that this will be the last day he wakes up next to Jack, because Jack leaves today and Bitty leaves tomorrow and by the time they get back his room will be fixed, and then his stupid little crush will stop making things hard for him. Not literally. Well, it was only a few times, and the most important thing is that Jack doesn’t know and will </span><em><span>never,</span></em> <em><span>ever</span></em><span> know because that would make Jack uncomfortable and Bitty does not want to do </span><em><span>anything</span></em><span> to make Jack uncomfortable because (a) that’s </span><em><span>really</span></em><span> shitty and (b) he’d be proving homophobes </span><em><span>right</span></em><span> and—</span></p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Shut up,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he tells himself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shitty would lecture you if you told him that. Don’t make Shitty lecture you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The second, non-tangential thing he thinks is that Jack is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> next to him. The third thing he thinks is that someone has </span>
  <em>
    <span>horribly</span>
  </em>
  <span> burnt something, because that strange smell of dough gone wrong is wafting up into his nostrils. He leaps out of bed and heads downstairs, trying his best to ignore the three dents in the walls that still haven’t been fixed since Epikegster— </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lord,</span>
  </em>
  <span> thinking of Epikegster leaves a bad taste in his brain— a day and a half ago, and arrives in the kitchen to see Shitty sticking a cookie tray out of a window. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Crisse,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jack mutters, his back to Bitty as he pulls another tray out of the oven. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Crisse,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> he repeats as he turns around and sees Bitty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What in the Lord’s name are you two doing?” Bitty asks. If he wasn’t so horrified by the charred-black monstrosities on the tray in Jack’s hands, he’d laugh at Shitty’s startled expression. “If you wanted cookies, you could've asked me once I woke up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Brah, it was supposed to be a surprise,” Shitty says. “Like, cookies of gratitude. But then we—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You,” Jack interjects dryly.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I</span>
  </em>
  <span> forgot to grease the pans, and then we forgot that we put the first pan in </span>
  <em>
    <span>before</span>
  </em>
  <span> the second so the first round got super burnt. But I’ll do the dishes!” Shitty says cheerfully. “Sorry for desecrating the pans.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Y’all are too sweet, really,” Bitty says. “And as long as you get those pans clean, I’ll choose to forget your transgressions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, Bittle,” Jack says. “I don’t think they would’ve turned out half as good as yours, anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can teach you,” Bitty blurts. “If you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack cocks his head slightly, and then he smiles. “I’d love that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bitty grins back at him, and he tries not to keep staring at Jack’s blue, blue eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shitty grabs the spatula and starts scraping the cookies off. “Shitty!” Bitty exclaims, grateful for the distraction. “What about you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, Bits,” Shitty says. “Can’t believe I’m passing up an opportunity to learn a Bittle family recipe, but Lards and I are gonna go hit Jerry’s one last time before we head up. Thanks though, brah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll send you some pie from Madison,” Bitty promises.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have I ever told you how much I love you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Many times.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll tell you again, then. Bits, you’re a fuckin’ delight and I love you so goddamn much and I’m gonna </span>
  <em>
    <span>miss</span>
  </em>
  <span> you so goddamn much and if you ever for one second forget it I’ll be forced to drive down to Madison and hug you ‘til you remember.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, Shitty,” Bitty says fondly. “Well, if y’all are gonna be washing the dishes, then I’m gonna go get another hour of sleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“G’night,” Jack says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, so—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you teach me how to make a pie, instead?” Jack says. His face turns pink. Bitty struggles to tamp down the fluttering in his chest. “Oh. Sorry— what were you gonna say?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing important, of course we can make a pie, Jack! Any reason?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not really, it’s just— well, if I ever have to make a pie for a final again, I’d like to do it right, y’know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good Lord, you are a hard worker, Jack. I mean, not that that’s a bad thing. Obviously not. Or else you wouldn’t be playing Division I Hockey, eh?” Bitty’s face is burning.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“‘Eh?’”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jack interjects, smirking. “What happened to ‘Canadians are ice-blooded sons of bitches?’”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bitty blushes even more furiously. “I only said that because you were wearing a </span>
  <em>
    <span>T-shirt and jeans</span>
  </em>
  <span> in </span>
  <em>
    <span>twenty degree weather.</span>
  </em>
  <span> That’s a perfectly reasonable reaction.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I dunno, I thought it was a perfectly reasonable outfit,” Jack replies. “Certainly more reasonable than the three different winter jackets you wore that day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was </span>
  <em>
    <span>cold!”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Bitty insists, laughing. “And if you’re gonna be that way about it, then I’ll just have to deprive you of my pie-baking lessons.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Harsh words from a man who wears a toque as soon as the temperature drops below forty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I feel like you say </span>
  <em>
    <span>toque</span>
  </em>
  <span> just to tease sometimes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve discovered my biggest secret.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Chirp all you want, Mr. Zimmermann, but you’d melt if you even stepped </span>
  <em>
    <span>foot</span>
  </em>
  <span> in Georgia.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good thing I’m not going to college in Georgia, eh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you hush. Sit there with your snow and your smug attitude and see if that gets you anywhere.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I sit here with your flour, will that get me a pie-making lesson?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not if you chirp me to death you won’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But if I get you the flour I will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Y’know, you’re so tall, you might as well get all the supplies while you’re at it. It builds character.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So does walking through snow, but you don’t seem to like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did I say about the chirping?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack chuckles, pulling the flour down from the cabinets. “That I was very good at it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, let’s see if your skills can transfer to pie-making.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve got a head start. I’ve seen you make so many pies I bet I can remember the measurements by heart.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, a bold claim from Mr. Zimmermann here. Care to make it interesting?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Always.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you remember the measurements </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly,</span>
  </em>
  <span> I’ll bake you a batch of cookies, and if you don’t, then… hm…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then I buy a new oven.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bitty almost drops the pie tin. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“What.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack shrugs, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s Christmas. And it’s not like I don’t have the money. And also, I’m just that confident in my pie-making skills.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jack, I can’t let you—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wow, Bittle, what happened to </span>
  <em>
    <span>got your back?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jack says, deadpan. “One and a half years of trust, thrown down the drain, because you don’t believe in the power of my memory.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bitty lets out a laugh. “Jack, seriously.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m being serious,” Jack says, the twinkle in his eye betraying him. “When are hockey robots not serious?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lord, you are just incorrigible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ten-dollar word there. Maybe you can use that money to buy more butter for the cookies you’ll have to make when I win.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bitty squints at him. “Fine. You’re on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘Swawesome.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bitty hops up on the counter and watches as Jack assembles a pie crust— nearly perfect, except for one thing. “Is it up to your standards, Chef Bittle?” Jack asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It would be. Except you put vodka in it instead of vinegar,” Bitty tells him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack frowns and looks at the bottle laying on the counter— clearly labeled </span>
  <em>
    <span>VINEGAR</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Welcome Week prank,” Bitty explains, a grin slowly spreading over his face. “Holster and I swapped the vodka and the vinegar, except nobody could really tell the difference since it all went in the tub juice anyway. So I just snatched up the leftover bottle, took off the vodka label, and used it instead of switching it back, because honestly? It’s a pretty nice bottle. And there’s been vodka in the vinegar bottle ever since. I guess you don’t pay </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> much attention, Mr. Power-Of-My-Memory. Obviously, you don’t have to buy an </span>
  <em>
    <span>oven—”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bitty, wait— I can believe the vodka thing, but didn’t I put the wrong amount of flour in?” Jack asks, brow still furrowed. He has no right being that handsome— honestly, is it even Bitty’s fault that he developed a teeny tiny crush on him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nope. Two and a— wait a minute. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jack!”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Bitty exclaims reprovingly. “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>tried</span>
  </em>
  <span> to screw up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack shifts. “Well, I lost anyway, so… it doesn’t really matter, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What</span>
  </em>
  <span> doesn’t really matter?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...The fact that a new oven is going to be installed over break?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the first time in— well, a long time— Bitty is speechless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you speechless,” Jack echoes. “Just— consider it a Christmas present. The whole team chipped in, and anyway, Holster says the amount of pie you bake equates to </span>
  <em>
    <span>three</span>
  </em>
  <span> ovens, and— Bittle, are you mad? I’m sorry if it’s— if it’s too much, or—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In a show that Future Bitty will remember as </span>
  <em>
    <span>borderline embarrassing</span>
  </em>
  <span> (and that Future Jack will recall as </span>
  <em>
    <span>cute, Bits, it really was, I promise),</span>
  </em>
  <span> Bitty jumps forward and wraps Jack in a hug so tight that he hears Jack’s back crack. “Lord,” Bitty says, choked up, “y’all are just </span>
  <em>
    <span>too much</span>
  </em>
  <span> sometimes, you know that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack’s hands come to rest on his back, and Bitty thinks he can die happy now. “I’m glad you like it. Even though you haven’t seen it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bitty lets go of Jack and laughs wetly. “I love it. Even though I haven’t seen it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, this’ll be the last thing we bake in… euh, Betty? No, Betsy, right? It’s Betsy?” Bitty nods, still trying to force the tears away— </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lord,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he loves his team so much— “Okay, so… if it’s the last pie, it should be the best pie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jack Laurent Zimmermann, if you’re about to suggest putting protein powder in a pie—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Could we do that?” Jack asks, wonder breaking through the Canadian stoicism.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Bitty says emphatically. “But we </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> make a damn good pie. Maple apple?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bittle,” Jack says, completely serious, “you read my mind.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Crisse,</span>
  </em>
  <span> it’s good to be in Montréal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He steps off the plane and hugs his parents, and on the drive home, they don’t speak a word of English. He tells his parents everything that’s been happening, and they don’t stop grinning the entire way home. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“&lt;&lt;What?&gt;&gt;”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jack asks, catching his mother’s third fond look in thirty seconds in the mirror. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“&lt;&lt;What are you laughing about?&gt;&gt;”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“&lt;&lt;We’re just so </span>
  </em>
  <span>thrilled</span>
  <em>
    <span> for you, dear,&gt;&gt;”</span>
  </em>
  <span> his mother says. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“&lt;&lt;You deserve all the happiness in the world.&gt;&gt;”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He narrows his eyes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“&lt;&lt;You didn’t act this crazy last time I was home. What’s going on?&gt;&gt;”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His father just looks at him wistfully and says, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“&lt;&lt;Nothing, Jack.&gt;&gt;”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The car pulls up to their house, and Jack drags his bags up to his old room. He hasn’t properly lived in here since childhood, really— minors and then the draft and then rehab and now college have pulled him away from this room. The previous decorations— trophies and posters and pennants, all painful reminders after rehab— are stacked somewhere in a storage closet, and now the walls are bare, save for some family photos. He tosses his duffel onto the bed (thankfully, his parents replaced his old twin with a queen) and unzips it— and on top of all his clothes lays a bag of cookies with a post-it attached. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dear Jack!</span>
  </em>
  <span> it reads (and Jack hadn’t thought he’d miss Samwell so early, but there’s something about Bittle and his infectious cheeriness that defies all reason). </span>
  <em>
    <span>I hope you have a ‘swawesome break! I know you wanted Betsy’s “last meal” to be a special pie— don’t worry, I took the pie out last, it’s still the last thing Betsy cooked. But you would’ve won the bet if not for the vodka-vinegar mixup, and I figure I owe you a token of my gratitude. Enjoy the cookies, ok? -ERB</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jack smiles, wondering how the hell Bitty managed to make, bake, and stash a whole batch of cookies in the short time that Jack was showering. He carefully removes the note and sticks it onto his bedside table, and then he heads downstairs to put the cookies in the kitchen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“&lt;&lt;Ooh, is this from your baker?&gt;&gt;”</span>
  </em>
  <span> his mother asks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“&lt;&lt;How’d you get them past customs?&gt;&gt;”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“&lt;&lt;You’d have to ask him,&gt;&gt;”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jack replies. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“&lt;&lt;He’s very thoughtful.&gt;&gt;”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His parents Look at each other. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“&lt;&lt;You’re doing it again!&gt;&gt;”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jack exclaims. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“&lt;&lt;Do you have something against Bittle, or—&gt;&gt;”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“&lt;&lt;Oh, God no!&gt;&gt;”</span>
  </em>
  <span> his father laughs. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“&lt;&lt;He’s a delight!&gt;&gt;”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“&lt;&lt;Then why all the weird looks when I bring him up?&gt;&gt;”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Another Look. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“&lt;&lt;Jack,&gt;&gt;”</span>
  </em>
  <span> his mother says, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“&lt;&lt;you bring him up a lot. More than you bring up Shitty.&gt;&gt;”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“&lt;&lt;Bittle is a good friend. I don’t get it.&gt;&gt;”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His father smiles benevolently. Jack is very, very confused. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“&lt;&lt;Kid, you remember when you started college and we thought you and Shitty were </span>
  </em>
  <span>dating?&gt;&gt;”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“&lt;&lt;Yes?&gt;&gt;”</span>
  </em>
  <span> As if Jack could forget— that weekend was the most confusing weekend of his life.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jesus,” his mother mutters, laughing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“&lt;&lt;Jack.&gt;&gt;”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Amusement dances in his father’s eyes.</span>
  <em>
    <span> “&lt;&lt;Well— You know what your uncle always says. ‘You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.’&gt;&gt;”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jack blinks. And then everything makes sense.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He always wants to be in proximity to Bitty. He smiles more when Bitty’s around. He feels that near-constant warmth whenever he’s by Bitty’s side.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His mother hoots. “There we go!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Tabarnak,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jack says. “Euh. J’reviens.” He grabs the car keys off the table, and he sprints out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His parents look at each other. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“&lt;&lt;I didn’t know he would be </span>
  </em>
  <span>that</span>
  <em>
    <span> much of a go-getter,&gt;&gt;”</span>
  </em>
  <span> his mother says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“&lt;&lt;He gets that from you,&gt;&gt;”</span>
  </em>
  <span> his father replies with a grin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jack pulls up to the Haus at three in the morning, exhausted and filled with dread, and he wonders if he can just turn around and drive back to Montréal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But no— the tank is almost empty, and he forgot his phone and wallet at home, so there’s no way to call anyone or refill the gas. And he’s made it this far. He’s not going to give up now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He kills the engine and steps outside into the snow— fuck the snow, honestly, that’s what made the trip an eight-hour one instead of five— letting the flakes fall on his head for a moment. He stretches— proper circulation is very important— and takes a breath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Any navel-gazing he was planning on doing is cut short by the opening of the front door. Bitty, his face backlit by the hall light, wearing an oversized blue hoodie and a ratty pair of Adidas shorts, stands in the doorway. </span>
  <em>
    <span>His hair looks like a halo,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jack notes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Like that song he always plays.</span>
  </em>
  <span> And God, he looks beautiful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Jack?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Bitty exclaims. “Good Lord, what in the hell are you doing here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Every part of Jack is screaming </span>
  <em>
    <span>I want to kiss you.</span>
  </em>
  <span> So he bounds up the steps, taking them two at a time, and does it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bitty tastes like maple apple pie.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>lads be kissin!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>Bitty pulls back and takes a gasping breath. His entire body tingles, and he’s vaguely aware of the frigid wind rushing around them, but the feeling of being kissed within an inch of his life by <em> Jack Zimmermann </em> is surging through his fingers and toes and lips and he thinks that he’ll never be cold again. “Jack,” he says, and then he stops, because the only word he could conceivably form is Jack’s name.</p><p>“Bitty,” Jack replies. Bitty didn’t think Jack could get any more beautiful, but his eyes are dark and his lips are pink and his hair is flecked with little pieces of snow, so Bitty has no choice but to condemn his past self for being a dumbass.</p><p>“That was…” Bitty tries to find a word that would encompass all of what just happened, and he comes up short. He settles for saying, “That was amazing. Um. But— what are you— did you <em> drive </em> all the way from <em> Montreal? </em> Jack, it’s snowing, and— <em> Lord, </em> you should’ve called, I would’ve made you something! You must be starving!”</p><p>Jack lets out a quick <em> hah, </em> his eyes suddenly a little bashful. “Euh. I forgot my phone at home. I bet that’d be sacrilege for you, eh?”</p><p>Bitty ignores the chirp, saying, “What, did you get home and leave as soon as you put your shit down or something?”</p><p>“Kind of? I saw the cookies, and then— well, long story short, I realized that, euh. I have. Feelings. For you.”</p><p>“Lord, you are just— you are <em> too much, </em> Jack.” A slow smile creeps onto Bitty’s face. “I— I do too.”</p><p>“So what does this mean?” Jack asks, blue eyes filled with uncertainty. “Do you want to— to <em> date, </em> or— I mean, I really like you, Bittle, but we’d have to keep it a secret, and I don’t want you to be— I mean, I know you’ve finally gotten to be yourself here, I don’t want to make you hide anything again—”</p><p>“Jack,” Bitty says, trying to force back the maelstrom of emotions in his chest, “I really like you, too. And— y’know, it’s not like we don’t hang out a lot already, nobody’d think twice— we could just act like we’ve been acting, and then— well. We can figure it out, if— if that’s something you’d want.”</p><p>Jack’s lips curve up in a hesitant smile. “It is.”</p><p>“Then let’s figure it out. And you should call your parents, too, they must be worried. Oh! And you can try some of these <em> amazing </em> no-bake peanut butter bites I made after you left— plenty of protein for you there, Mr. Zimmermann— wait, are you going back to Montreal now, or…”</p><p>“I’ll leave with you in the morning. I don’t want to lose another second,” Jack says. And he looks so earnest, so gentle, so <em> him, </em> that Bitty can’t do anything other than kiss him.</p><p>It’s just as good the second time.</p>
  </div></div>
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